Talk Me Down
by Mirrordance
Summary: Sam just left for Stanford & cut off his ties, & Dean is running himself to the ground: If he was the one I called last night,I'd be dead. I can't put that together with this guy who was by my side all these years. It can't possibly be the same guy.
1. Chapter 1

Author:Mirrordance

Title: **Talk Me Down**

Summary: If he was the one I called last night, I might already be dead. I can't put that together with this guy who was on my right side all these years. He can't possibly be the same guy. Sam had just left for Stanford and cut off his ties, and Dean is running himself to the ground.

* * *

**Quick Note**: Thanks to all who read and lots of love especially to all who reviewed _From Perdition_: Sushi Chi, jjackles, Kansas42, apieceofcake, nannon, Jas-TheMaddTexan, tomash, deangirl1, Tatsumaki-sama, finajk, Mandy, and:

Phoebe: haha, I know bad habit with the previews thing, but I am still keeping in mind what I owe everyone and hopefully they'll be coming out, little by little, haha. Thanks for the patience and the always-constructive comments, you're the best!

MKofGod: don't worry about going theological, haha... I think I'm exactly the same way this season. I am especially impressed by your commentary on the worthiness of being used. That's really, really insightful and intriguing for me.

Twinchy: thank you so much for the encouraging comment. I do try my best portraying Castiel, he's so fascinating, and I'm grateful the effort comes through and is appreciated :)

For all those interested, _Underworld_ is making tons of headway after I read how people reacted to _From Perdition_, so you might see the mass of it really, really soon. I just get scared because I structured it like a movie in my head, so it's a little more indulgent and I'm scared of losing readers at the start. But anyway, we'll just have to see, I guess, haha! Really, really, really soon it should be posted :)

Anyway, c&c's on this new fic are always welcome. Without further ado, the first of two chapters of _Talk Me Down:_

* * *

**Talk Me Down**

Chapter 1

* * *

In their line of work, they didn't get thanked very often.

So it was more than strange that John should be getting two free beers in two different hunter-frequented bars in two different middle-of-nowheres in two different states from two different strangers who have said that it was the least they could do for Dean Winchester's father.

"What?" he had asked, both times too, blankly. The first guy said something about a burning orphanage and a vengeful spirit. 18 kids, out without a scratch, of the physical sort or otherwise, all of them convinced that it had somehow just been an adventure. The other guy said something about a cursed small town that had staved off a seasonal, lethal dust storm for the first time since the depression of the 1930's after a '67 Impala rolled into the now-former-hell-hole.

He thanked the men for the brew but cautiously did not drink their salute. His fellow-hunters had snorted at him, hardly offended. His brows furrowed. Hunters knew other hunters, it was a small world. He had tried to keep his sons from knowing the extremely dangerous ones, had tried to keep them within the circles of the more level-headed guys, but apparently, that didn't keep the rest of the hunting community from knowing about the Winchesters, most especially the flashiest one.

He was proud as hell of Dean saving lives like that, he was hardly a cold man. But damned if he wasn't irritated too. He had last seen his son several weeks ago and then sent him after a shape-shifter in Boston and a big cat in Jersey, not the jobs these hunters were talking about.

_What the hell were they talking about_?

He drew out his cellphone, and Dean picked up at the first ring. Almost always at the first ring with Dean, whenever John came calling. John could never figure out how Dean could do that.

"Dad, you okay?" also, as per usual, the first question out of Dean's rapid-fire pie-hole, always beating John to the punch, yakking even just as John was gathering the breath to speak.

"Fine," John replied tersely, "Where the hell are you? Did you finish the jobs in Jersey and Boston?"

"You know I have, dad," Dean said simply, "I went the moment you told me to. It's all done and shit. How's your gig going?"

His gig was scenting Mary's killer, the very reason he had assigned Dean to some other job on the opposite side of the country in the first place. He could not have any of his sons near the thing that had killed their mother, it set him off in a bad way, and he would never tell them that most of the time that he left them behind was in going after it. But the trail had gone cold again, _again, again_, always turning cold on him.

"I'm done," he said instead, "What the hell is this I hear about you and an orphanage and the goddamn dust bowl?"

"I'm sorry," came the quick, unthinking and ultimately desperate apology, and John couldn't help but think that Dean never used to sound so jittery.

"I ran into several jobs along the road," Dean said after a breath, "No biggie. Handled and done and all. Are you pissed? I thought you'd want me to. I was gonna call, but I figured, I was already there, it couldn't wait, I might as well just..."

John frowned, letting him ramble on. Did that kid get his head scrambled? It was hard to tell irregular behavior from Dean, lately. Hard to be sure about what he had in that head of he his, not since Sam left for Stanford the way he did, back turned, ultimatum spat at, a sense of unquestionable finality. Dean had gone from rakish to apologetic, and from strategic cool to caffeinated workaholic.

"Is this about giving me another job?" Dean went on, and John couldn't ignore the odd sound of despairing hope in his tone, "'Cos I'm good to go, dad. I said I was done, right? I said that? The stuff's taken care of, you can send me to Alaska or wherever the hell you like. Are you pissed?"

"I'm not pissed," John said, pressing at the bridge of his nose.

_God, what a pain_.

It was so hard, so damn hard to have to deal with all this now. Coming after another failed hunt for his wife's killer to Dean and his neuroses, and all its accompanying memories of Sam leaving them. After Sam left, damned if it didn't seem as if Dean had gone and left too. He was as reliable on the job as always, but the rest of the time... hours spent in the car, downtime at a motel... he was hesitant, a little bit dulled, a whole lot tarnished, and that was a constant reminder that this was all probably John's fault. Having Dean and his quiet suffering around him made John feel like an ugly-assed son-of-a-bitch looking at a mirror all day, being reminded that he was a monster. Or a terrible father. _Whatever, same thing_.

_Not_ that Dean was ever openly needy. If only he was, just so's they could get all this out of the way. But he did his job in that painfully focused way, looked at his dad like he was gonna go away in Dean's sleep, and when the call came through with possible signs of the demon that had killed Mary, it was like he couldn't get away from Dean fast enough.

_I'm sorry, I'm sorry, _he had thought, but that was as far as it went. There was a small part of him that tried to stay, but he was more tired than he was sorry. Tired of having to deal with Dean being dented like that. Tired of having to deal with all of this being his goddamn fault. He knew that Dean could live with his father being like that, he had, after all, lived with John and his flaws all his young life. What the hell was new.

_Actually, scratch that_. What was new was that now, Sam wasn't around to be a distraction to Dean. He had once thought it was just Dean who had that curbing effect on Sam; keep him in line, keep him focused. But seeing Dean now... he was floundering a little, like he was just a little bit adrift.

Either way, John gave him a job, he took it like he always did, they split up when John said he had to take care of another somewhere else, and left.

"So you're giving me another job?" Dean pressed.

"Not yet," John growled, "Just wanted to know what the hell you've been doing. I heard some stuff here and there. You did good, Dean."

"Yeah, you think so?" and John could hear Dean smiling even from just the damn phone. Was he so easy to please? The damn kid's breaking his heart over and over.

"Yeah," John winced.

"Hey dad, you wanna meet up?" Dean asked, "It being that we're both done and all."

_Hell no_.

"I have to tie up some loose ends out here," John lied, "I'll ring you as soon as I can. But I think I have something for you. Gimme a few minutes, I'll call you back."

"Okay."

He hung up on Dean thoughtfully, and dialed an old friend's number.

"Hey, Bobby?"

"How 'ya doin' John?" came the semi-jovial reply. He had a feeling his old friend didn't know what to do with him half the time.

"What?" John asked.

"Whadja mean what?" Bobby snapped, "You called, didn't cha?"

John sighed. "Yeah, I need a favor."

"Don't you always," Bobby said, barking out a laugh, "What can I do for you?"

"You got a job I can send Dean out on?" John asked, "Something simple, he doesn't have his head on straight."

"It's never simple," Bobby grunted, "And you're never supposed to go on a hunt like that. You know this."

"I can't bring him where I'm going," John lied, "And I don't want him running off, finding worse trouble on his own. You know he can."

"Just have Sam sit on him."

"Sam's gone," John said, after a long moment of silence.

"What?! Why didn't you--"

"Not _dead_, Singer," John snapped, "College. Stanford, free ride. A coupe of weeks back."

"Yeah?" came the impressed reply, and John could actually imagine the grin on his old friend widen, and then fade, "I'm bettin' Dean's proud as a new momma and as blind-mad at him as you are for him leavin.'"

"Dean's not mad, no, just..." John thought, "Just... he's off his game. I don't want him getting hurt."

"Send him over," Bobby said, "Babysitting, just like old times. I like having your boy around anyway. Does it have to be hunting? I'm detailing a new piece, John, I can even pay the kid. Dean's patient with cars, got good hands on a machine."

"Yeah that'll be great," John said, hesitating, "We could use the money too. Thanks."

"Don't mention it."

* * *

The Winchester boys made a perfect fit for keeping company with a gruff, lonely junkman, he tended to think. Not for the reasons Dean might once have thought, though. Dean, angsty teenager at the time (hanging around Sam back when Sam was, in turn, hanging around amateur, perennially-angry high school poets) had sad-laughingly once told him, in one of those other times that John Winchester had left his boys at the Singer junkyard to go gallivanting off on his own somewhere when they were younger, that _one man's trash was another man's treasure_.

_"Ain't that right, Bobby?" _Dean had asked, and his eyes were crinkled laughing but veiled and watery-lonely.

It was the first time Bobby had been tempted to shoot John, and it hadn't been the last time. But how could you shoot a guy who somehow turned up kids like this? Dean with his spirit and Sam... Sam up in Stanford, ha!

What had he said, back then? He couldn't remember much of it, probably nothing decent, or even vaguely comforting.

_"Your dad's got a lot on his plate, Dean. You're the only part of his life that isn't junk, I think_."

Dean had just snorted, shrugged, and then raided his refrigerator.

The Winchesters made good company for a guy like Bobby because he was just as lonely. A bunch of kids looking for a father is bound to find a man looking for a family. Dean raiding his refrigerator, helping him out at the yard... that was what family was all about. He considered it a privileged, borrowed position that John could let him into their lives like that.

He stocked up his fridge and his cupboards. Dean Winchester was coming over, and in another life, he had probably been a tornado hitting a grocery store.

When he heard the rumbling Impala drive up toward the house, Bobby drew out a cool beer, sank a quarter of it into his stomach, then filled up the space with holy water. And then he opened the door, and waited for the kid to step out of his gleaming black car.

Dean was as compact and lethal-looking as always, bulky in his dark clothes, jewels from his hand glinting with the sun now and again as he moved them, checking his cellphone for a call or a message before pocketing it and smiling at Bobby as he walked forward.

Dean had a small and always slightly shy grin on his face whenever he met up with the older hunter, and Bobby imagined it must have mirrored his look too. The grin was rakish, because Dean had always been a smart-ass, but the shyness was the inborn hesitation Dean always had about his welcome.

"Heya Bobby," Dean said, offering the older hunter his hand to shake. They clasped hands warmly, and Bobby offered him the brew.

"I was looking forward to this," Dean said, his grin widening, his shoulders relaxing, "Diluted with holy water and all. It's its own distinct flavor, always reminds me of you."

"Can't be too careful," Bobby said, slapping him on the back in their usual rough affection, except this time, he caught Dean at an off-blow, making him stumble forward.

"Hey!" Dean complained, good-naturedly.

Bobby chuckled, but frowned a little in thought too. He practically felt the kid's bones through his jacket, and the imbalance was unexpected. Dean led the way inside the house, and Bobby closed the door behind him. He turned to face Dean, who had taken a good long sip from the bottle and looked around with a wistful expression on his young face.

His features were more angular than when they last saw each other, Bobby noted, and he wondered if it was Dean thinning or if Dean was just chiseling with age. He had been a goofy-looking kid, and his eyes still tended to go wide like they would pop off his head, but he was a handsome devil all grown-up like this too.

"Like what you see?" Dean asked him with a smirk.

"I look at you sometimes and think John can't possibly be your daddy," Bobby said.

Dean laughed, and looked around the house again, "Everything's the same. Even you."

"You were last here, what," Bobby asked, "A year? Two ago?"

"Something like that," Dean said, eyes dimming in memory, "I kept stumbling on all your books, just lying around. And Sam's damn legs, I kept stumbling on those, all stretched out on that floor there, he was reading everything and didn't care about anything else."

Bobby looked at him carefully, and suspected the weight-loss might be Sam-related after all. And out of the sun from outside, Dean looked pale too. Eyes drawn, a little sunk, like they tended to when he got ill or weary, instances which Bobby had unfortunately seen more one time too many. Maybe Dean was both. John had been right, his head wasn't all where the rest of him was.

"You hungry?" Bobby asked. He asked just because he couldn't bring himself to say anything else, but the lunch had been ready hours ago, painstakingly prepared even though he knew his customer was never a particularly discriminate one, "I can whip up something."

"Nah," Dean said, "I had something to eat on the way here. I can never wait when I'm hungry, you know that."

"Well good," Bobby lied, only because he suspected he was being lied to too, "'Cos I ain't giving you a thing until you get some work done outside."

* * *

Dean had no problems with that.

He was dust and hands and knees on the yard minutes into settling his duffel down in Bobby's living room. They talked shop, traded trumped-up hunter stories, like hunters sometimes did, even the best ones. A deceptively-busted-looking radio was playing Three Dog Night, "_Stuck in the middle with you..."_, as they worked. It was easy to lose track of time, especially two hunters accustomed to working together, and to working in the dark. Bobby had finally drawn the line when Dean returned from a bathroom break with a night lamp, determined to keep at it.

"It'll still be there tomorrow," Bobby said easily, "It's dinnertime."

Dean left with him, reluctantly glancing behind him at the half-done job. "I can keep going," he said, "Dad said it's good if I earn here, but we might hook up in a bit, you know. He might have a job lined up. Better to finish sooner, and--"

"You used to like my food, boy," Bobby said indignantly, "What the hell?"

"I still do, man," Dean said, still glancing at the car, "It's just..." he hesitated, "Yeah, I guess it's a good idea."

They walked to the kitchen together, and Bobby would have just re-heated their uneaten lunch and served that, but Dean was looking so antsy on the cluttered dining table that Bobby gave him a knife and vegetables and the two of them started cooking together. It was as easy as a hunt with Dean; they somehow always had enough elbow room to maneuver around each other.

Dean was good with knives and the vegetable chopping was rhythmic and precise, its dull sound joining that sharp, low-quality register of the old TV set in the living room, showing reruns of a quiz show they both knew most of the answers to.

"Hey Bobby, is your set haunted?" Dean asked him, "It's like a death echo of a TV show, man. Anyone actually still runs that shit, or is this like a _Frequency_ moment?"

"A what?"

"You know that movie?" Dean asked, tossing the chopped vegetables into a pot, "Guy buys a radio and gets to call his dad, who's long-dead. I was so confused. Your TV's stuck in the 80's, man. You gotta get your EMF meter or something, and talk that TV show into following the light."

"Smart-ass," Bobby said.

Dean chuckled, and coughed lightly into his sleeve. He lifted his head and wasn't surprised to find Bobby frowning at him.

"I didn't cough into the food," he said, defensively, clearing his throat, "I swear! I saw on TV that this is how chefs do it, you know. Into your sleeve, not your hand."

"That's not it, you idjit," Bobby snapped, "You sick?"

"Nah," Dean said at once, making Bobby roll back his eyes, pointedly and wordlessly showing how _typical_ he found that response.

"Seriously," Dean insisted, "I just worked two cases with too much damn smoke and too much damn dust. Fucking headache, man. Fires and vengeful spirits, not cool. And then there was this place, it was like being back in the depression. Fricking dust bowl. I found dust in all the holes and cracks you're not supposed to find dust--"

"Keep it to yourself," Bobby grumbled, looking appropriately disgusted. Dean just grinned at him.

"Seriously though, I'm good," Dean said, putting the pot on the stove, clapping his hands and rubbing them together earnestly, "What else, what else?"

* * *

Dean finished in two frenzied days' work that would have been done by more men in more time. Bobby thought he could keep the kid a week at least, but the work was clean, impeccable, careful, downright _inarguable_. When John had once said that Dean was his perfect soldier, he could have just as easily said that he was the perfect mechanic too. Hell, John could have said perfect cook, because Dean took to that task every night with gusto also, even if he barely ate anything that he made.

The kid was bursting out of his skin, Bobby reflected, darkly. Dean was cheery, sure, made the usual wise-ass remarks, made Bobby laugh more times than he had in the last few months put together. But his eyes dulled sometimes, looking at Bobby's books and the corner he said Sam once sat on with legs outstretched, and he kept sleeping on a thin blanket in the living room floor, skipping the empty sofa he had always yielded to Sam when they were younger and stayed over.

"I'm used to it," he had grunted that first morning, when Bobby woke up to find the uncanny sight.

He doesn't talk about Sam leaving, or Stanford or the entire West Coast, for that matter. The one time Bobby brought it up, Dean had joked and cleverly skipped the answer. Bobby made a note to keep his questions to himself next time and thought they were good, but he woke the next morning to find that Dean had worked all night and the restoration was almost done, like he was just dying to get out of there, away from more prying questions of stupid old junkmen who didn't know any better.

"I got another truck coming in a couple days," Bobby lied, when he sensed that Dean was trying to say goodbye to him over breakfast, "I could really use your help."

Dean arched an eyebrow at him, and looked as if he was going to call him out on it, but he bit his tongue and spared the both of them the embarrassment.

"Yeah?" he said instead, stretching his arms over his head. He yawned, and it ended in another light cough.

"That doesn't seem to be letting up," Bobby said, pretending to be distracted by the newspaper he was reading, knowing too much fuss usually sent the kid crawling up the damn walls.

"Fricking dust bowl," Dean muttered, shaking his head, reaching for a glass of water. The two of them have this conversation once a day it seemed, "I'm not sick."

"I'm just saying," Bobby said, "That hunt was what, a week ago?"

"I told you I still keep finding dust in holes and cracks," Dean told him with a mischievous smirk.

"Yeah, yeah, so you did."

Dean tapped his spoon and fork together, shook his leg anxiously, "So what, that job coming up in a couple of days, you said? How long? Two? Three days?"

_As soon as I call in a favor somewhere, yeah_...

"You in a rush?" Bobby asked.

"Dad might want me somewhere," Dean said.

"If he wanted you somewhere," Bobby said, "You couldn't stop him from dragging your ass there even if you tried. When'd yer daddy ever been bashful, huh? You sit tight here, keep an old man company, he'll holler when he wants to."

"I guess," Dean said, not looking entirely sold on the idea. He tapped his utensils against his plate, before catching himself and putting them down.

"I think I'll wash the dishes," he declared.

"You do that," Bobby encouraged, looking up from the daily, and finding that there was still a good amount of food on the table.

"You eat like a girl now," Bobby commented, trying not to sound too worried.

"You kidding?" Dean asked, as he put the used plates together, "I ate most of it."

"You gotta eat, Dean," Bobby looked at him pointedly and said nothing else about it. By the way Dean evaded the look, he knew he didn't have to.

"I said I'm fine," he mumbled and walked to the sink, and started washing the dishes, his back turned to his host, not seeing Bobby's worry, the creases forming on his forehead.

"I got a thought," Bobby said, "Seeing as we're both havin' a ball here, I'm gonna up and call yer daddy, have him join us. Is that stellar or what? I think I can afford to feed the two of you since you started eating for half a person."

The water splashed on, but the movement of Dean's hands stilled, and the squeak of the sponge and towels against the plates stopped with them.

"You sick of me now too?"

The delivery was pitch-perfect, a disgustingly perfect, well-practiced joke. But Dean's hands didn't start moving, and his shoulders were stooped, and he wouldn't look Bobby's way, and damned if it wasn't an honest-to-goodness question.

The newspapers rustled as Bobby decisively put them down. "Dean, I'm gonna say this 'cos it needs sayin--"

"It was just a joke," Dean told him, turning this time, smiling, but they crinkled and hid his eyes, "I know you're crazy about me." He turned back to the plates, saying, "Bobby, geez, take it easy. Relax."

* * *

Dean decided to leave while the welcome mat was still more-or-less rolled out.

He snatched up a hard-core cup of coffee and then flew off in his car.

A scant couple of hours after driving away from the Singer yard in the dead of the night, the dull headache he's been nursing for the last few days made him pull the car up to the first motel he could find when the lights started to explode from behind his eyes, like blinking, drifting after-images that blocked his vision in random spots. He didn't want to have to kill someone on the road, or end up wrapped around a tree. Or _worse_, surviving, and having to call up his father to say he had wrecked the car.

The light-flashes were obscuring corners of his vision, narrowing his sight. He kept bumping into things, like the ledges of the door to the motel office, or a potted plant on the desk that he almost didn't get to catch in a save after he knocked it out.

He wasn't unfamiliar with the pain, he's had bad headaches before, _everyone _in the modern world must have had it before, and twice or thrice as often than the usual if you're a Winchester. Once more because they were overworked and occasionally overwhelmed. Twice more because they were unlucky. Or maybe the caffeine he had was just crashing. Or he thinks he may have forgotten to eat again. Or something. Anything. _Whatever. _He just wanted it out, and he needed to stop somewhere until he could see straight.

He paid upfront for a room for three days, christening his most recently-acquired fraudulent credit card. He needed the time to feel better, and to look for another job anyway. The lady at the desk had looked at him with bleak judgment, probably pissed about the door and the plant, or had him written-off as a drunk. He didn't have the energy to blame her.

He left his car where he parked it by the office; more trouble moving it around in the small space in his current state anyway. He left his things. His mind had narrowed to the singular thought of a mattress on his back. That was it, that was the world, bed on his back, narrow as his tunneling vision.

He moved slow, head low, not wanting to make any sudden movement that would aggravate the persistent ache in his head. He didn't turn on the lights in the room, and he locked the door behind him carefully, before sitting on the bed. He closed his eyes and leaned against the headboard, trying to regulate his breathing.

The lights were still dancing beneath his closed lids, even in the dark of the room, and inanely, he wondered where the hell they were coming from. He shifted and grunted, uncomfortable. All sound suddenly died in his right ear, before turning into a low, incessant ring that seemed as if it was coming from underwater. He pressed a hand against his ear, and tilted sideways on the bed with a miserable groan.

_Fucking migraine_, he thought miserably, feeling his stomach churn, and his mouth water. He groaned, and shifted again, wishing he could cut off his own head, if only for just a couple of hours.

The lights started to pound, and no longer were they gently drifting flashes, like jellyfish on water, but they began a dull, throbbing beat that felt like it was coming from the right side of the back of his neck, beating outward and wider, expanding up to his head. It was like standing in front of a speaker, back when he had that rare chance to go to some lame high school dance in a nameless hick-town and the committee didn't have enough money to rent a decent sound system. The food sucked, the music was worse, for god's sake there was no liquor, and the only thing that made it worth going to was the chick in his arm and the bleachers at the back. Unfortunately, migraines didn't come with either.

He coughed the stupid cough that's been bothering him for days, and his stomach heaved, probably thinking it's been invited to join his head and his lungs in the party that was his misery. He closed his mouth and swallowed thickly. No use throwing up anyway, there was nothing in there. He had tried to eat back at Bobby's place, but lately, he just hadn't been all that hungry.

He grabbed the edges of the headboard and pulled himself up. The flaky wood shook with his weight, but thankfully held. Groaning, he practically tore off his jacket, and dumped his weapons and cellphone on the drawer of the night stand, save for his favorite knife, shoved gracelessly beneath his pillow. Leaving his supplies might not have been a wise idea since he would kill for a painkiller at that moment, but getting up and moving any further was just... so... distinctly unappealing...

He sank against the bed again and ran headlong into the dark, willing it to take him.

* * *

He woke to the ringing of his cell phone, and couldn't, for the first time in a long time, bring himself to care enough to get up and pick it up. The room was glowing with morning light that seeped from the thin curtains of the single window, but otherwise everything was the same, even the pain in his head which had not let up at all, spreading from the right side of his head to just engulf the entirety of him.

His stomach clenched and he gagged, but he somehow managed to keep his non-existent lunch. Or whatever the hell his last meal had been. It was the extent of his targeted achievement for the day.

He groaned and shifted, letting the sounds of his misery rule the room, and it magnified his loneliness, because there was no one to hide them from, no one to smother it for. Sam was gone and dad had left him too. When Sam left, it was like dad left also.

He shot up from bed.

Maybe the call was from _Sam! _Dean's left him a couple of messages after all, just wanting to see if he was all right. Or catch up. Or just remind Sam he's got a brother somewhere. Or remind _himself_ he still had a brother. _Whatever_.

The room tilted and shifted in protest, but he groped for his cell phone on the night table and saw Bobby's name. He put the ringing on silent and set it back down. The sound settled. His stomach didn't.

He run-staggered to the bathroom, skinned and bruised his knees on the tile, and heaved and coughed out his prayers to the porcelain gods.

Acid burned his throat, worked its way up and out of him, the only things he had inside to come out. The taste was foul, the smell unbearable, and yet he could do nothing but let them take him. His stomach clenched and clenched painfully. Tears leaked from his eyes, and his nose ran. He panicked at the morbid thought that perhaps he was being turned inside-out.

He sank on his rump when the spell ended, and he leaned heavily against the tile walls, breathing harsh. Taut muscles were spasming now, and he found himself distracted by his arms and legs, shaking, jerking like a fish out of water on its last moments of life. He felt cold and shock-y, and he just sat there, exhausted like he's never been exhausted before. He felt like a used-up old oil rag, lying there. Used up, like he just ran out, and was promptly and thoughtlessly discarded.

* * *

"Bobby, take it easy," John had said to his rambling old friend over the phone, and damned if it didn't make him speak louder and faster.

"Relax--"

And a notch more.

"I don't understand what you're sayin,'" John growled at him, "Slow the hell down."

"I should have fiddled with his goddamn car!"

"Whose?!" John asked.

"Your bullheaded idiot son!" Bobby retorted, catching a breath, "I'm sorry, John. I kept him put at my place a good two days, but then he took off in the night, scrawled some chicken-scratch note with a piss-poor excuse, like I'm a ditchable prom date."

"What'd it say?"

"He's diving headfirst into another job," Bobby replied, "Call him, will you? He won't pick up."

"I will," John said, "Anything else I should know?"

A thoughtful pause, the kind that makes a father's blood turn cold.

"Bobby?"

"I mean he's all right," Bobby replied, cautiously, "For now. But he's tiring quick, John, burning at both ends. Your kid doesn't _stop_ moving, barely sleeps, doesn't eat, and I think he's coming down with something. You gotta pull the breaks."

"Yeah," John winced, running a weary hand over his face, "Yeah."

"You gotta talk to him, John," Bobby said, "This ain't goin' away, and you're the only one who can."

* * *

Dean woke up like that, cold on colder tile, and hours must have passed because the morning light was gone. The light was gone, but his _fucking_ headache was still there.

The pain was bad, deep-seated bad like he's never had it before, and he knew a thing or two about headaches. There was the sharp, biting kind, the one you got with broken skin and lots of blood. There was the dull one that went with mild concussions, registered low, manageable. There was the one that came from hangovers, his favorite one, the one always accompanied by mild regret and weightless promise of _I'll never drink again_.

This one... this one was different. It was a soundless boom, just throbbing and wide and very, very deeply _inside_ him, expanding outward, like it was fighting to get out. He felt like his head was getting bigger and bigger, like his brain was going to start seeping out his eyes and nostrils. He banged his head against the tile, willing to change the pain into something more familiar and manageable, or at least wishing it would knock him out.

It didn't. He tried again, and again after that. No change.

He pounded his fist against the floor, frustrated. Did it again, was sure he did it harder except he felt no pain, only cold and tingling, and he looked at his hand, wondering it was still there.

The coldness and the tingling started to move upward, from fists, crawling up his arms. From his toes, crawling up his legs. Like drunken ice ants crawling.

_What?_

_Never mind_.

He blinked, and tried to calm his harsh breaths. His lips felt two sizes too big, numb and shaking. His head was killing him, but it was the only place in his body that was remotely warm by now, that and whatever his tears passed by on the way to the floor. It's never, ever been this bad before, and he was shit-scared. His head's been miserably screwed for about twenty-four hours now.

_Maybe I should call someone_, he thought, experimentally.

The idea tasted foul, foul as the acid that was burning its way up from his stomach again.

"God," he sobbed as he pushed himself off the wall, and it was the only way he could find strength enough to propel his way back to the toilet. He lost all that he had left to lose, which was nothing much really, just air and bile and the last of his strength, pride and courage. Some blood too. Maybe it was because of the acid burning his throat, maybe he had finally broken up something in his gut.

He sank to his side on the cold floor, hands pressed against his head, and he was so sure it was the only thing keeping it from exploding, _he was so sure_. He tried to stand, but just sank back again. Nothing was working right.

_I gotta get up_, he told himself, _I think I really gotta call someone_.

He couldn't get up, and lying there, he thought maybe it was just as well. He couldn't imagine what he'd say to the only people he would call for something like this anyway. _Dad, I'm in this place and I'm really sick, can you come get me_? It sounded lame. Dad would tell Dean to do what he would do: suck it up. Bobby? He wouldn't call Bobby. He's imposed on the man enough, after all, and then ditched him to boot, only to inconvenience him further by getting his ass out here. Dean didn't have that kind of cheek on him. And Sam? _Yeah right_. Total write-off. Bastard hasn't picked up in weeks, he wasn't gonna start now.

His heart pounded in his chest, matched the pounding in his head, and his throat felt like it was closing. He gasped, just trying to breathe, just trying to stay alive, because he wondered if he was dying.

_Don't get overly dramatic_, he scolded himself. He was in pain, it was just a headache, and that he could always handle.

His stomach clenched tightly, begging to disagree. It felt like a kick and the pain just bent and folded him, making him cry out, and he suddenly felt bloated and full and sick.

He scrambled back up, and got rid of more acid and more courage and more pride and more control, all down the toilet and _god, yes _he thought he had every right to panic now. Drama went with dying, that was just how things went, and he swore to himself that if he could get up to his phone, he was definitely calling someone because he wasn't going to die like this. It was pathetic and gross, and worse, the people he loved would be wondering why he decided to suffer it alone rather than tell them anything.

He sucked on ragged, fortifying breaths, and launched himself from the bathroom, landing on the edge of his bed. Thank god the room was small, and he could crawl to the night table from here.

Trembling hands made a grab for the phone. More missed calls from Bobby. And _oh god_ he was in so much trouble, his father too. He winced. Great. Just great. So. _Who to call_?

The room was spinning, and his stomach was a tight mess. Spots were dancing in his vision, and he knew that if he lost it now, with his room paid for for the next few days, there was a chance that all anyone's ever gonna find of Dean Winchester is a rotting corpse.

_Dad_, he decided.

_But it'll freak him out and he can't do anything about it from where he is_, Dean reasoned to himself.

He dialed 911 instead, and then laid back down, clutched his head to keep it from exploding, and waited.

TO BE CONTINUED...


	2. Chapter 2 and Afterword

Author:Mirrordance

Title: **Talk Me Down**

Summary:If he was the one I called last night,I might already be dead.I can't put that together with this guy who was on my right side all these can't possibly be the same had just left for Stanford and cut off his ties, and Dean is running himself to the ground.

**Note: **Thanks to all who read and especially all who reviewe Chapter 1! I wrote down some notes and replies to some concerns on the reviews on my **Afterword** at the end of the fic, so if you wanna get a look at the, as they say, the method of the madness (including character notes, some story quirks you may or may not have noticed, where the title of the fic came from, et cetera, please read through it :) Anyway, without further ado, _Talk Me Down_:

" " "

**Talk Me Down**

" " "

Chapter Two

" " "

Dean next woke up to the cartoonish-voice of a man from a warbling radio, asking for the description of the patient's situation.

"Has called complaining of a severe, debilitating headache," came the response. Nice voice, calm, level, assuring. "Ongoing for at least the last twenty-four hours. Patient is male, mid-twenties max, exhibiting signs of shock, elevated pressure. No obvious injury. Found him unconscious and unres-- oh wait, hang on, he seems to be coming around."

Dean squinted his eyes open, to find that the man looked like the voice.

_What?_

_Never mind_.

Dean shut his eyes again at the assault of light. Damn things were burning out his sockets--

"Hey, hey," the paramedic said, "You can close 'em, sure, but stay with me, all right? I need to ask you some questions. I know your head hurts, but do you hurt anywhere else?"

"Stomach," Dean admitted, voice a rasp as he caught his breath. His head was going to explode, and he needed to hold it to keep it together, didn't they understand that? Why the hell were they pushing his arms back? He needed his hands...

"Did you injure yourself earlier today or in the last few days?" the paramedic asked, "A fall? Hit something? Anything to do with your head, your neck or back?"

"No," Dean writhed, trying to jerk his arms free, "I need... need m' hands--"

"Just relax, Dean," the man said, making Dean freeze, and belatedly realize he must have been out of his mind sick when he had called for an ambulance and gave them his real name, "We're trying to help you."

They were loosening his clothes, and while it was making it easier to breathe, he was embarrassed as hell too. He felt like a turkey dinner free-for-all. But first things first. Fix the head, and everything else he could deal with.

"No injury," Dean replied, gulping, as he tried to loosen up and let them help him. Hell, someone had to, right?

"Did you take anything?" the man asked neutrally, "And you have to be honest with me, because we need to know everything so that we can help you--"

"No drugs," Dean drawled with a groaning chuckle, because it was still kind of funny, "No alcohol. Not even aspirin. _If only_. I _fucking _wish. Shoulda had 'em _all_."

"All right," the man said, laughing lightly, "Have you ever had this before?"

"Never... never this bad..."

"No history of neurological illnesses?" the man asked, "You or your family?"

"Does crazy count?" Dean asked, and gasped and cried out when his stomach spasmed again. He choked and gagged, and was mercifully turned on his side. He felt someone rubbing his back, and he just breathed and focused on that. Hands of strangers, but whatever. Beggars couldn't be choosers and he had no one else, didn't he? No one and nothing else, no strength, not even pride, _nothing..._

"No visible injury," the man reported to his radio again, as Dean tried to regain control of his breathing, to stay alert, "Claims no use of illegal substances, no signs of drug paraphernalia in the vicinity... No history of similar illness. Just a really sick kid here. He's responsive, decent sense of humor, but he's drifting in and out. I don't wanna give him anything until we see some tests... he's stable, but in a lot of pain..." he turned back to Dean, "Anyone we can call for you?"

Dean took a deep breath and shook his head.

_Just a really sick kid_, he thought, initially indignantly, except he was hurting on the damn floor and being held by hands he didn't know or care to know, as long as they lent some relief.

_Just a sick kid, _he thought, _Yeah, I get that. I can second that._

He hasn't felt like a kid since Sammy was shoved into his arms in a burning house. He hasn't been a kid in a long, long time. But these strangers were loosening his clothes and rubbing his back, touching him, looking out for him. Laughing at his lame-ass jokes, even. He hasn't let go like this in such a long time, just... just _let go_. No need to stay half awake, one eye open, ears attuned, body tensed and battle-ready.

He let himself be helped for the first time in a long time (_let_ might be too strong a word, since _technically_, this damned failing body wasn't giving him any choice), and embarrassing as hell as it was, there was some relief to it too. He found his entire body loosening up, because he was tired and discarded, and he was never one to do things halfway anyway. He'd stopped floundering like a dying fish. He was just... mercifully, and _finally_ sinking.

"Dean, you still with me...?" came the paramedic's voice, still-level but sounding more worried now, and sounding far, sounding like it was coming from underwater.

_Sure I am_, Dean thought, _Or at least... you're the closest I have to being around anybody lately, mister. Whoever the hell you are_.

It was an odd sensation, like falling in one's sleep, the sudden, jerky feeling of consciousness being shaken free of the body. His mind fled a second after his entire body loosened to completely limp.

"Hey, hey..." the voice called again.

Dean didn't bother responding. _Yeah_, they got him covered. Whoever the hell they were. He felt like someone was truly and openly looking after him, for the first time in a long time.

He '_let_' them.

_Beggars can't be choosers after all_.

* * *

If you had a son who had the uncanny habit of answering at the first ring, countless missed calls in the span of over thirty-six hours was damned near devastating.

But John Winchester was never a quitter. He called some contacts up where Dean told Bobby he was headed, and was told beyond a shadow of a doubt that his son and his sleek black car were not spotted, and that the hunt would be handled by someone else.

He didn't know if he was supposed to be relieved. If Dean didn't go there, where the hell was he?

John drove in the direction of Bobby Singer's house. He could consider that as Dean's origin and work outward from there, giving him a respectable search radius.

He called Dean's number every few hours, was on the road with a hot cup of caffeine (it was decidedly not coffee), expecting his call to go straight to voice mail like all the other calls did, except Dean picked up at the first ring this time, and he sputtered the damn drink all over his damn clothes and he cussed and nursed his truck into the shoulder of the road.

"Dad, you okay?" came the usual urgent question, and John felt half of all his hair turn white in aggravation, and the rest just fall off.

"Dean, where the hell are you?!" John exclaimed.

"Came from Bobby's," Dean replied, and his voice sounded scratchy, like he had just woken up, "On my way to a hunt."

"Don't lie to me," John warned.

"It's technically true..." his eldest murmured. It was all semantics. What a wise-ass. No wonder his kid brother wanted to be a lawyer.

"That hunt you told Bobby about?" John barked, "If that's where you're headed, don't bother, it's taken care of."

"Oh, good," Dean breathed, "That's good."

John's eyes crossed in irritation. Dean sounded... loopy. _Drunk_? He wouldn't be surprised. Dean had gone home drunk the night he brought Sam to the bus station bound for California. He's dealt with misery and celebration equally with a bottle after all. But it didn't feel right, not this time, not lately.

Father and son fell to an awkward, conversational lull. Dean didn't sound like he minded at any rate, barely seemed aware of it, was even humming one of those songs he blasts in his car. Maybe the awkwardness was all from John, because everything suddenly seemed louder and more acute. He even heard some activity from Dean's end.

_Sir, I'm sorry you can't use that here_, said a woman with a calm, studied, modulated voice. John knew voices like that. Voices like that belonged to mothers with sick kids, nuns, kindergarten teachers and _nurses_.

"Dean where the hell are you?" he asked, mouth dry.

A thoughtful, weighty pause.

"Dean--"

"Sackrey General," came the clipped reply, "A couple of hours out from Bobby's. Don't call Sam."

John's eyes almost popped from his head. "How bad is it?!"

Because in Dean's book, his younger brother could be bothered about anything, anything at all but the serious things. Dean with a mild injury and Sam was affectionately bullied into random service designed to make Sam feel useful and better, annoy him to distraction from the worry – _get me this, get me that, brat_. Dean with his gut torn open by a monster or other and the mantra was _don't let him see, don't let him see..._

"I'm fine," Dean said breezily, and his tone was deceptively light, his chuckle a low, rumble, "I'm fine, dad, I don't even need you here. I think I can even bust out of here in a couple of hours. I panicked, and I just feel ridiculous now."

"What the hell happened?" John demanded.

"Long story."

"Try."

"Dad," and suddenly he sounded truly weary, and quite embarrassed, "No bleeding, no holes, no cuts, no stabs, no broken bones, no poison, no fever, no injury. Fair enough? I'm just kinda off my game. Had a bad sandw-- oh no wait, scratch that."

"What?!" John asked, confused.

"Bobby's gonna ring my neck," he murmured, "Yeah, I was lying about that last part, scratch that. The food was actually pretty good, it's not his fault."

"Dean," John said, in a warning tone.

"Bottom-line," Dean declared, "I'm good, and I'm almost out of here."

"I'm headed there," John told him, "Don't go anywhere, and that's an order."

* * *

John called Bobby, just to tell him everything was all right... more or less. He owed Bobby that much at least. Dean was found, Dean was conscious, everything else they could live with.

"Where'd you find him?" Bobby asked, "And I am gonna give him an earful as soon as he picks up his goddamn phone."

And there's the rub.

"Hospital," John grumbled, and added over Bobby's curses - the man could curse in three languages, at least, and damn but he had a dirty mouth on him when he was pissed - "He's pussy-footing around about how or why, but he sounded all right."

"Where?" Bobby asked.

"You can probably get there sooner than I can," John said, "But I ain't letting you go there before I do 'cos I wanna get to him alive, Bobby. You can come on down after I talk to him if you want."

"He's your son, so it's your call," Bobby grunted after a telling pause, and John, feeling his disappointment and disapproval, wondered what that was about for a beat, before disregarding it, "Just leave some pieces for me. I wanna get my hands around his scrawny neck."

* * *

John forgot to ask Dean about which name he had used, but a buxom-blond nurse spotted him right off, and led him to his son.

"Just like you said," she announced with a beaming smile as she ushered him into Dean's room with a flourish, "I found you the man who walks in with the sourest scowl I'll ever see in my life."

"Thanks, Lennie," he told her with a small smile, though his eyes were already drifting to his father's even before she replied.

"Anytime," she said, leaving the two of them alone. There were two other beds in the room, both unoccupied. It was a quiet hospital in a small town.

John narrowed his eyes at Dean in speculation. He had forgotten that Bobby called Dean scrawny – something he never thought of before, but seemed especially pronounced now. The thin white t-shirt showed off his bones, bones which sank his skin, skin so sallow it widened and brightened his eyes. There were no machines hooked up to his son, which was a relief. Just an IV on his arm and a tube on his nose, the kind that miserably went down to the stomach.

"Explain."

"My head is fucked," Dean said, matter-of-fact, voice and expression flat and dull.

John knew how to play too. "Not good enough, 'cos then there's no difference from when I last saw you. So what's all this?"

Dean appreciated the barb, smiled tightly. "And you were wondering why Sam wanted to be a lawyer, always running that mouth with you."

"I was thinking the same thing about you," John said, smiling grimly too. It was the first time they talked about Sam since he left, without either of them turning sour or angry or closed altogether. John looked at Dean thoughtfully, and then decided that he could wait a few minutes for for a decent explanation. Besides, Dean wasn't likely to give an accurate one anyway. He'd corner his son's doctor later.

John pulled up a chair next to Dean's bed, sank into it gratefully and leaned back, still pensive.

"So what's all this?" John asked, waving his hand at the general picture of his sick son.

"They said it in scientific Latin mumbo-jumbo," Dean replied, "So I forgot half of it. Sounded like a migraine, but I guess the additional Latin stuff just meant it's the bad-mother kind. I thought my head was gonna burst open." He chuckled, raising up his arm, referring to the IV line, "What a dork. At least I get hard-core painkillers. Yummy," and he pointed to the tube on his nose, "And nothing was staying down, so this is food. Better than your cooking, at least."

John snorted at him.

"So how long does this have to go on?" he asked his son.

Dean rubbed his face wearily, "'Til they say enough, I guess. I know _I_ can't wait 'til it's out. I was gonna just pull, but I have a feeling that won't end up so pretty."

"I'll wring your neck if you try," John guaranteed him, "So what else did the doctors say? They did some tests, right? Nothing... nothing I should be uh--"

"I felt like a rat," Dean said, cutting off his father's word-hunting, "Yeah, they poked and prodded and tested. Coulda been an alien abduction. So there's nothing to worry about. No tumors, no bleeds, blah blah blah, random, random - I just got sick, I guess."

"Bobby said you haven't been eating," John said, "Does that have anything to do with this?"

"Partly," Dean admitted, wincing, "I haven't had time to eat much lately, sure. They said I'm stuck here for the migraine-something, some kind of an ulcer, some kind of a deficiency, and, of all things, exhaustion. _Exhaustion_.I thought that was like, like, a euphemism for rockstars getting wasted or something. Guess it really happens after all. I wish I got wasted instead."

"Bobby said you haven't been sleeping either, haven't been _stopping_," John said, "So those two jobs... not the only ones you worked since I've been away, I guess."

"Yeah," Dean admitted, "Hey waitaminute, Bobby said all that? He's got a big mouth."

"You owe him," John pointed out, "He's worried."

"I know."

"You know what R and R is for?" John asked.

"I'm not stupid, dad--"

"Not what it stands for, son," John sighed, "What the hell it's _for_. You gotta breathe, once in awhile. Right? Helps you do the job better. You take control of yer body, or it takes control of you."

"There's always a lesson, right?" Dean asked, voice taking on an edge.

John checked his temper at the tone, just arched an eyebrow instead. "I guess so."

"I'm sorry," Dean said quickly, closing his eyes, "I'm just... yeah. You're right. As always. What the hell is new."

"You just gotta take care of yourself better, son," John said, rubbing the back of his neck, and this was gonna take everything outta him, just_ everything_. But Dean was sick, he was so seldom sick and seldom this bad, and John was pretty sure where all of this was coming from, so he had to ask. He just _had _to.

"I was thinking of giving Sam a call."

Dean's eyes snapped open, and he shot his father a stricken look. He blinked, and killed it right away. He chuckled low, condescending.

"Sure. Now you do."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing," Dean sighed, "Dad, can we just drop this? I'm really not in the mood."

John sure as hell was tempted to. Run away again, tempting, easy. But whatever was on Dean's mind is what got the both of them here, and if they didn't do this now, they were just going to end up back.

"So you got a job lined up for me?" Dean asked.

"Dean," John said, exasperated, "Didn't we just--"

"R and R," Dean said quickly, "Right. Got it. Right. I'm sorry."

"So," John took a deep breath, "You want me to give Sam a call or what?"

"I want _you_ to want to," Dean snapped, "I just don't understand why you had to--" he cut himself off, "No, I do. I'm not... I'm not mad. It was your last card, I understand why you had to. I'm sorry."

"Dean, what are you talking about?" John asked.

"I don't know," Dean admitted, shaking his head, "I don't know. Call him if you want to. Knock yourself out. Good luck."

John just looked at him quietly for a long moment, not knowing what to do or say, really. Dean reached for the remote control of the TV, put it on an old _Looney Tunes_ episode.

"I guess I'm justy kinda sad about it," he said quietly, distractedly, never taking his eyes away from Daffy Duck, "He's so surly," he said, chuckling to himself, before turning pensive again, "You spend 8 hours cooped up in a car together. We've slept on the same bed for years when we were kids. And then suddenly it's just quiet, you know. And the toothpaste lasts longer, and _especially_ the shampoo. And my side keeps getting hit when I work 'cos I can't get used to the idea that no one's covering me there, _ever again_. And I don't wanna get any better, I don't wanna get used to that, 'cos that means..." he shook his head, eliminating the thought,_ cos that means he's never coming back_.

_"_I look at food and think there's so much," he said instead, and John was trying to piece together whatever the hell his son was trying to get at, "I'll never be able to finish all of _that_. Not without my Sasquatch brother. A pizza box, a bucket of chicken, too big, you know. Too much. Sickening. I couldn't imagine all of that in me. It's just wrong, you know. Sickening. Disgusting."

He chuckled again, because Daffy said something funny. "You're despicable," Dean echoed softy, before continuing, "The worst of it part is...He won't pick up my calls. I mean I'm not mad. I get that he wants to live out his life over there. I _want_ him to live his life out there, he deserves it more than anyone. But if one of us gets killed out _here_, if one of us is really in a bad way and that's what the call was about – and it's always a possibility - doesn't he even give a shit about that? Doesn't he give a shit that you or me, one of us could be hurt or one of us could be dead?

"I know why you had to tell him never to come back," Dean went on, quietly, and his eyes were glazed and glued to the TV, "It was your last card. You said that only 'cos you wanted him around. You didn't think he'd go if cutting us off forever was what it meant. But he did. He went away and now he's not answering my calls so I guess he's sticking to his guns too. And I'm finding it hard to understand that."

He chuckled again, self-deprecating. "If he was the one I called last night, I'd still be there. Worse, I might already be dead. I can't... I can't put that together with... with this guy who was covering my side all these years. This shaggy-haired kid. I can't... can't see how they can possibly be the same guy.

"The only thing I can see," Dean went on, "Is that we gotta keep going, you know? We gotta keep working, we gotta keep hunting, we gotta keep helping people, for all of this to make any sense. Sam wanted out, I get that. But I'm staying, and what we do... someone's gotta keep doing it or else people will die. So we just gotta keep doing it. We gotta not-stop. 'Cos if I stop... then I got nothing else.

"So," he finished, looking at his father, and the wounded look was gone, "You got a job lined up for me, dad?"

* * *

John didn't call Sam up right away after catching up to Dean. Dean was looking better, doing great, recovering. It was making John sink back to complacency, after his initial panic. He didn't need to go through the misery of calling Sam, because Dean was okay, Dean was getting over it, as he always gets over everything.

But the day they took out the feeding tube, the day Dean tried to eat and John watched because Dean was embarrassed and eating like he had forgotten _how_, and John watched as he lost everything he had painstakingly ate just minutes ago, and John watched as he sank into exhausted sleep white and shaking, _that _day he called Sam.

_I look at food and think there's so much_, Dean had said, _I'll never be able to finish all of that. Not without my Sasquatch brother. Too much. Sickening. I couldn't imagine all of that in me. _

_Sickening. _

_Disgusting...._

He caught Sam's machine, and was profoundly relieved.

_"Sam, it's... it's dad_," he had said. He knew that if anything could get Sam's head out of the sand it would be his brother being hurt. Despite whatever Dean thought, he knew this. He knew this beyond a shadow of a doubt.

_"I don't know if you're gonna get this, but what the heck. It's Dean. He's sick. He's getting better so don't worry, I got him. I just thought you should know_."

* * *

Dean was far from a hundred percent, far from eating enough, far from recovered, far from well. But he was better, keeping what little food he had to eat down at any rate, and he knew his body enough to know he'd improve further soon enough. Besides, he knew he just _had to_ check out when the doctors started muttering about a psych consult.

"Maybe it's a good idea, Dean," John said, looking profoundly pained and uneasy.

"Yeah," Dean snorted, "Let someone else sort out your mess again."

The antagonism just spilled out, was uncalled for, and Dean didn't know where the hell it came from. Maybe he just wanted out of the hospital. Maybe he was a little bit insulted by the suggestion. Maybe he was right to begin with, and there were some things John Winchester for all his bravado and tough-guy attitude was damned scared of, and double-damned incapable of handling.

But pain unquestionably streaked across John's weary eyes, and that, Dean could never let go of. He hurriedly said he was sorry. John just let him check out and do whatever he wanted. They both dropped the apparently embarrassing truth.

The two Winchesters called up Bobby and headed over to the Singer yard straight from the hospital, where they were crashing to give Dean some time to get back on his feet.

Winchesters were pretty good with paying back debts, so on the way there, Dean picked up a big bucket of fried chicken from a restaurant near the hospital, and even played it up and put on a bow he had conned from a woman selling flowers in the hospital gift shop to give to Bobby as a peace offering. Bobby only accepted it if Dean ate with him. It was a good trick, and the chicken wasn't half-bad.

* * *

Sam called them after apparently just listening to his father's message, and caught them when John, Bobby and Dean were watching another antiquated game show in Singer's living room. Dean snatched up his cellphone from his pocket, looked at the caller ID, and stared at the ringing phone like it was heralding the apocalypse.

"Pick it up, will ya?" John ordered him, pretending not to know who it could be, "Damn sound's annoying me."

"Yeah," Dean said, mouth dry, shuffling to his feet and taking the call outside.

Bobby watched the younger man walk away, and waited for a beat before telling John, "You did good, Winchester."

"What do you mean?"

"I know you and Sam had a falling-out," Bobby said with a shrug, "Picked it up in bits and pieces from Dean. But he needs to hear from his brother. You did good. And he's looking better."

"He tries to keep it low-key but this one could have gone down real bad," John said, wincing, "I talked to his doctor. I had to, 'cos you know how he is. The Dean-version was a bad headache and fatigue. Reality is, as always, more than a little worse."

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing now," John replied, "But the pain was bad. They were giving him serious medication. He still has to take some in the next few days. And while rare, the docs warned me to keep looking out for attacks like that last one. If it gets that bad again and for that long... well let's just say he was lucky he didn't stroke out this round."

"But he's all right?"

"Yeah," John answered, "He just has to watch it. _I _gotta watch_ him. _The attack could have come from stress, overwork, malnutrition, depression, fatigue..."

"Basically everything plaguing the kid lately," Bobby finished, "Yeah, I get the idea. So what are you planning now?"

"We lie low until he's better," John said, "And... and unless I can't help it, I'm keeping him by me."

* * *

"As I live and breathe," gasped Dean, mocking, "It's Sammy Winchester."

"Hey, Dean," came the greeting, and Dean could have sworn he heard the dimples in Sam's cheeks, "You sound good."

"You sound disappointed."

"Ha ha," said Sam, wryly, "Dad said you were sick or something."

Dean's brows rose, "You guys talked?"

"Kind of," Sam said, and Dean heard him wincing too, "He left a message, and I finally got to listen to it."

"So you get messages after all," Dean said, unable to keep the edge from his voice. It hurt, that Sam had heard his messages and ignored them. He masked his anger quickly though, before it turned malignant and ruined the conversation. He didn't want Sam to be running away (_even more_) from phone conversations too.

"Busy busy, huh?" Dean said flippantly, "It must be crazy starting your life out there. Nailed any coeds yet?"

"No," Sam replied, distractedly, tone turning more serious, "So what, you all right? What happened?"

"Dude, I'm fine," Dean said, "None yet? Sam. Come on. You gotta represent the Winchesters, man. Give some respect to the name. Or just some simple self-respect for that matter. People'd think I never taught you anything and--"

"Dean, you're really scaring me here," Sam said, chuckling nervously.

"You not getting laid for weeks in _college_," Dean emphasized, "_That_'s scary."

"Dean, no, come on," Sam insisted, "What happened, you all right? I was – am – worried."

It slipped out before he could stop himself:

"Coulda fooled me."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Sam asked.

Dean sighed, and gave Sam the same spiel he gave his father: "Nothing. You want the rundown? No bleeding, no holes, no cuts, no stabs, no broken bones, no poison, no fever, no injury. I was just off my game. Overworked and underpai- oh no wait, _unpaid_, that is – ended up in the hospital. But I'm good now. And I'll be more careful this time."

"Good," Sam said, quietly, still sounding unconvinced, and undeniably slighted, "I do care," he said, belatedly, so honest and awkward that it made Dean wince.

"I know that--"

"No, Dean," Sam argued, "I _do_. No jokes, man, all right? You're my brother, of course I do. Just cos I'm here doesn't mean I don't. Just cos I don't answer doesn't mean I don't. It's just that... you're always fine, you know?"

Dean blinked at the statement, and then shook his head in confusion, wondering if he was supposed to be offended.

"You're always fine," Sam said again, voice taking on an edge and a waver, "I mean, you can't not be. _You can't not be_."

_And then the world opens up, doesn't it_, Dean thought, miserably. Because apparently, though the end-result was the same – a kid brother not bothering to pick up the phone - the possible reasons behind it were as different as night and day. t was easy to think Sam had just stopped caring about his family. It was harder to realize he cared so much he had convinced himself there was no possibility that they were calling about bad news.

_You're always fine._

_You can't not be_.

Because these things meant that Sam could leave them, and these things meant that he could find his own way out in the world. Because Dean was always fine. Dean didn't need him. The phone call wasn't going to give bad news, because it couldn't possibly be bad news. It just couldn't possibly be.

"I ah..." Dean hesitated, and he hated himself sometimes, just sheer _hated _himself, and he was going to turn honest again, because it was so easy to be honest over the phone, which gave a guy an easy-out clause. You can be honest, because running away right after it was just at the press of a single button, and when you next see each other face to face, you can even pretend nothing happened.

"I need you to do something for me," Dean said.

"What?"

"Promise me something," Dean replied, "Just... promise me something, all right? If I call, Sam, as much as you can, always answer. _Always_ answer."

"I can't promise that, bro," Sam said with a nervous laugh.

"If you promise you'll always answer," Dean said, pinching at the bridge of his nose and closing his eyes, "I promise I'll never call. Not unless--"

_It's my last one. Like, dying-breath-goodbye-phone-call_. Because a few days ago, he had a hard time reconciling the image of his loving kid brother with the image of a self-absorbed, indignant, angry college rebel who wouldn't even speak to him.

_If one of us gets killed out here_, he had told his father, _If that's what the call was about, doesn't he even give a shit about that?_

_If he was the one I called last night_, he had gone on, and now he wonders at the magic-happy-drugs that had him yapping and yapping like a girl like that,_ I'd still be there. Worse, I might already be dead. I can't... I can't put that together with... with this guy who was on my side all these years. This shaggy-haired kid. I can't... can't see how they can possibly be the same guy._

_But they were_, Dean realized. They were the same guy. Sam was exactly the same. His cares were the same, his love was the same. He was just... a little bit more delusional than usual, just enough to survive out there, away from his family, away from Dean.

Dean could live with that.

But what he wouldn't be able to take though, is one more night like the one when he had been sick, and his only thought of his younger brother was rejection. Because easily, if he was dying and had one call to make, it would go to Sam. It would kill him if his call went to _fucking _voice mail.

"If you'll always answer," Dean said again, "Then I'll never call."

"You're so weird, Dean," Sam said, but he sounded nervous, and Dean suspected he knew what it meant, "Anyway, I just wanted to call, you know. Just to make sure you're all right."

Dean waited for the promise expectantly.

Sam wasn't biting.

"Well I'm all right," Dean said, wearily, resigning himself to the fact that no promises would be made here, and said more louder, and more steadily, "I'm at Bobby's, with dad too, so I'm good. If that's all you wanted to know, Sammy. I'm all right. I'm fine, bro."

_I'm always fine_.

"Thanks for calling, Sam," he said, dully. He felt, more than heard Sam taking a breath to say something else. But he wasn't in the mood anymore. He won't be for awhile.

He hung up.

* * *

Dean walked back to the living room, and there was something changed about how he looked that struck at Bobby painfully. The call from Sam was supposed to make everything better, wasn't it? But he looked... he looked like something died. Dead eyes, quiet, weary. There was a terrifying steely-resolve beneath it, and at the same time he looked inextricably lonely too. Bobby glanced at John beside him, who was frowning, looking like he was thinking the same thing.

Dean sat back on his place in the couch, stared at the TV none of them were watching by now. He was barely back in the living room when Bobby Singer's cellphone rang.

He looked at the caller ID.

_Sam Winchester_, it said, and Bobby rolled his eyes up to heaven and wondered what the hell he had ever done to deserve all this. He grunted a half-assed excuse and stepped out the way Dean had gone just minutes before.

"Hello, Sam," Bobby greeted, voice low, "I think I know what this is about."

"How is he, really?" Sam asked, "'Cos I can--"

"What?" Bobby snapped, "Go over here? Get your head outta your ass, Sam. You wouldn't, not really."

"Bobby," Sam breathed, and Bobby wanted to kick himself. He didn't understand, what was making him so angry. Sam had a right to branch out. Dean had a right to be sad about it. John did whatever the hell he wanted. So everything was where it was supposed to be. What the hell was his problem?

"Sorry, kid," Bobby said at once, "Been hanging around your old man. Translation: it's been a long day."

"I don't," Sam stammered, ignoring the redemptive humor, "I don't understand."

"I don't either," Bobby muttered, before turning more serious, "Sam, Dean's fine, he was just sick for a little while but he'll live through it. You come back and you're gonna light him up, we both know that. But don't you come back if you're just gonna up and leave again, 'cos I get the feeling you'll end up breaking him worse."

"What are you saying?"

"You're a smart kid," Bobby said, "You know what you leaving's cost him, right? You can't not know that. It's cost you too, I'm not blind. And though your father likes to think we all are and hides it, this cost him too."

"It's not my f--" Sam said, indignantly.

"I'm not saying that," Bobby said, quickly, "It doesn't have to be anyone's fault for it to be plain hard, Sam. And it just _is_. You come back, and it starts up all over again. Now I don't know anything, and maybe it's none of my business. But the way I'm starting to see it..."

"I stay away," Sam said, hoarsely, "Or I have to stay."

"I could be wrong," Bobby said, "But can you think about that? To have to go through one more time, like the last time you left? Someone's gonna break. Maybe Dean, god knows he's already bent out of shape. Maybe you, you're already pulled taut. Maybe your daddy, who's all tired and frayed. I could be wrong, and maybe I don't know anything. I'm not a Winchester, never will be, but you gotta give me this: you boys are as close to family as I can ever get, and I ain't never seen Dean or your old man like this, and I got the feeling I'm not gonna like what I see either when I see you. It's a mess, Sam. I thought... I thought if you just talked to your brother, things can get better. But now I'm seeing... you can come on home and fix this, but when you leave again – and we both know you will- you'll shatter what's left. Best to leave bigger pieces behind instead, huh?"

"Is he..." Sam said, voice breaking, caught, and then controlled again, "Is he really fine, Bobby? Is he really fine? Because if he's not, I don't care anymore, I'll go, and if I have to..."

"He's getting better, Sam," Bobby said, "He's figuring out how to do this without you, boy. He's stumbled on this round, but he knows he has to, 'cos you got fires inside you, and you're gonna fly, and he just has to."

"I'll... I'll stay back," Sam said, and he sounded as defeated as Dean looked, "But you gotta look after him, Bobby. And you gotta promise me something."

"What?"

"Anytime he calls you, answer him."

"I always do," Bobby guaranteed.

"And anytime he calls you," Sam said, "Call _me_."

**THE END**

November 26, 2008

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**Afterword**

* * *

Contents:

I. The Title and the Theme

II. The Characters

A. Dean

B. Sam

C. John

D. Bobby

E. General Character Notes

III. Massive Thanks and Replies

IV. The Next Project

**I. The Title and Theme**

As you may have noticed, **every single scene featured a call or a phone or a radio or a reference to a call or a phone or a radio, or the word "call**." Every single scene, because it struck me as an interesting unifying theme, especially since looking back, mobile communication is so integral to the series, haha... I don't think you'll see a series with greater phone usage than _Supernatural_.

**The title came from a line in the brilliant song **_**Cell Phone**_** by Jack's Mannequin**. Some of the memorable, high-impact lines are very reflective of the story so if you liked _Talk Me Down_, give the song a listen and hopefully you'd get what I'm talking about:

_I have become increasingly overwhelmed but not discouraged_

_And soon I'll leave the infirmary feeling well but lacking courage..._

_...Ring me up on my cellular phone so I know I'm not alone in a world full of vampires_

_Come on darling talk me down on my cellular phone because I can't get home_

_I'm a slave to the wires_

_I've done this before, I will do it more..._

_...I have become increasingly overwhelmed when out in public_

_I'm not so patient when they stare_

_There's a fighter somewhere underneath this skin and bones..._

_...I have given everything and more_

_Sometimes convinced I have the world to carry_

_Everyday is war_

_And rockets fly from dusk 'til dawn I won't be shaken_

_And should they take me in the night don't think my signal's fading for you_

_For you to ring, for you to ring me up on my cellular phone so I know I'm not alone..._

There's been some interesting online discourse on what this song means. As a matter of fact there's a number of versions of the lyrics, even. I looked it up because I love the song. From what I can gather though, it seems it's a song about a guy with cancer (with references to vampires as nurses taking blood, the play on words of being patient and a patient, the daily war of surviving, etc.) and his only links to the outside world through a phone. I found that metaphorical for _Talk Me Down_, where the links they had to each other were supplied by cellphones.

The depiction of Dean in this story is like the guy in the song: 'overwhelmed but not discouraged,''I've done this before, I'll do it more,' a fighter, someone who knows he just has to move forward.

Anyway, point being: if you liked the story, look up the song. The lyrics are great whatever the heck they really mean, and the tone is so wistful and inextricably determined that I just had to write something around it.

**

* * *

**

**II. The Characters**

As always, here you will find some notes on potentially debatable characterizations and the rationale for the depiction.

**A. Dean**

Dean's my superhero, and in _Talk Me Down_, I was so afraid of writing him out as irrationally dramatic and needy. Needy is not hot, haha. So I was so scared of posting it because it felt like I was treading the too-much line. I mean, what kind of a guy suffers this much and gets physically ill when his kid brother decides to go to college? There had to be a good reason, or better, several.

So, I had him overworked on tough jobs alone. I had him already coming down with something. I harped on his people-leaving-me complex. I added the spin of his father detaching himself, being somewhat equally-damaged and ill-equipped to handle the situation. I had him blabbing out his feelings because he was drugged. And I figured the thing that would make him most depressed would be encased in the teaser summary of this fic: his realization that this brother he loved to pieces maybe didn't care whether he lived or died.

**I was so afraid of posting this story because it featured two uncharacteristic Dean traits that might have made him seem unrecognizable: (1) his physical and pyschological brokenness; and (2) his openness about being broken**. I hope the above mentioned factors, compounded by everything coming together, justifies these things.

My favorite part in this story is when he tells Sam, 'Promise me you'll always answer, and I promise I'll never call.' It was Dean taking up the big-brother role again, recognizing that Sam's refusal to answer is from vulnerability, as opposed to being from anger or carelessness. At the same time, he needed to make sure that if he ends up dying on the job, Sam will pick up his last phone call too. You can even say the entirety of this fic came down to him saying that line, and I hope that kind of insight is translated.

**B. Sam**

I can't help it; I think there's a really very human level of self-absorption to younger siblings that is all entirely the fault of their indulgent, older siblings haha. I've always depicted Sam as humanly selfish, which I think is realistic and fair and very interesting. You don't get to see so much of him in this fic but what you do see, I hope, catches that spirit: his desire to go after the things he wants, and the self-delusion that allows him to pursue and sustain it.

The Pilot episode of the series has always been a subject of contention for me. We get the wee-Chester perspective of some considerable brotherly-devotion, and then you have a fairly detached Sam who wouldn't answer phone calls. There's a disconnect that just begs to be filled, I think.

I firmly believe that Sam wouldn't really just leave Dean out in the cold and cut him off completely. There must have been a reason how he found the heart to leave his beloved brother even at the face of danger and not even answer any of his calls, and this fic is another version of what that reason could be.

_One Night_, an older fic of mine, postulated that he left thinking Dean would be covered by their dad and when he was pushed away by Dean himself so he could have a better future. _**Talk Me Down**_** proposes that he had convinced himself that Dean would be okay without him, because he was always okay, because for him to be not-okay was simply not possible. The delusion was both a sign of Sam's love and a survival mechanism**. I felt he was capable of this because in the Pilot, Sam had been so sure their father was all right too, as if it was impossible for him not to be.

_**Talk Me Down**_** also puts forward another reason why Sam would stay away: the things Bobby had said, about him coming back and breaking them worse****. I remember doing outreach a couple of years ago, spending time with a bunch of disadvantaged kids. One of the first things we were told at orientation was to be consistent in our visits. If you're going to be flaky, or in-and-out as you pleased, it confused the kids and hurt them, so you're better off not going at all. I also remember Psych classes, which have shown studies on mice and gamblers how random stimulants are the most behavior-reinforcing: basically, if you never know when you're going to get a reward, you'll do an action more frequently. The rationale for Sam staying away could also be both these things. If he comes back and goes away again, and comes and goes sporadically at whim, it would be confusing and hurtful to the people he will keep leaving behind. And if he comes and goes at random, they would be more hopeful and constantly disappointed. So he steps back. Bobby's metaphor of how better it was to leave a relationship in large, broken pieces as opposed to shattered is how I illustrated he could make things worse if he came back and left again.**

Still, Dean being sick was a wake-up call of some sort for Sam. When I was writing this story trying to get to the culminating line where Dean asks Sam to promise to always answer the phone and in return he would never call, I thought that would be it, haha, until the ending line just struck me out of nowhere. Sam still cares for his brother _a lot_, and makes Bobby promise to always answer Dean, and then afterwards always call Sam. It felt like a nice twist, and it felt kind of... warmer, haha. I guess.

**C. John**

Am I gonna get shot by his portrayal here, haha... As I said, if I feel there are controversial characterizations or quirks that I have to defend, then I bring it up in this section of the notes. I depicted an unabashedly flawed, cowardly version of John here, I think, that some people might find disagreeable.

He pushed away Sam trying to keep him close. He pushed away Dean because he couldn't stand his pain. He loves his wife but all he could think of is revenge. _**Talk Me Down**_** is a distortion of his love, just it's perverted, wrong-version**. Frankly, I find it human that John should want to avoid the after-effects of Sam leaving, which was the culminating illustration of his failure as a father. But at the same time, he loved Dean enough to set things aside and call Sam, or send Dean away if he thinks his son can get in danger, or looks for him when he thinks he's gone.

So I hope it's not too heavy-handed on John, haha. The original _Talk Me Down_ was supposed to be a father-son bonding thing, until it took on a more depressing tone. The old teaser was actually that 'John was on the most important hunt of his life: finding what was left of his eldest son.' Obviously, haha, it didn't quite go that way.

Note, by the way, that the metaphor of an ugly person looking at a mirror all day was actually inspired by a clever line from one of Lois McMaster Bujold's Vorkosigan books. Something about a monster being trailed by a mirror or something like that. I love her works so much that thoughts like that tend to stick, without me being able to cite which specific work the thought had come from.

On a lighter note, I hope you spotted several recurring lines here between the scenes from John's perspective and from Dean's. I wanted them to feel related, with a similar jargon, so I repeated a number of lines that they both said, and pointedly Sam didn't, just to emphasize his distance. Sam doesn't even have a point of perspective in this fic. I do like using the media to convey the message and not just the words, so I hope the feeling of Sam's detachment from this world got through.

**D. Bobby**

Was he too intrusive here? I think I was on thin ice here too. The lecture at the end felt almost too sanctimonious, but I really felt it needed to be articulated, and I let him say it, because I think he had a right to say things like that, especially if he's the one who has to weather the windfall, haha... seriously, though. **In **_**Talk Me Down**_**, my depiction targets an emphasis on the sense of Bobby's inside-out-ness, like he's an extension of the family, sure, but still inextricably outside of it**. The position gives him a sharper eye on the situation, I think. And I personally believe that if the Winchesters keep bothering you for favors, you got a right to tell 'em what you think they're doing wrong, haha.

**E. General Character Notes**

On a more technical note, **you may have noticed a lot of series-references in this fic**. The idea was to give the quirks in the series a sense of history, and to lend some credibility to the fic by giving it a sense of familiarity to people who have watched the show. Just a few similarities and borrowed scenes and lines from the episodes that you can find in _Talk Me Down_, just off the top of my head would be:

1. Dean coping with Sam's loss by not eating can be spotted in _All Hell Breaks Loose Part _2, as is the bucket of food from Bobby, and the line about Dean needing to eat something;

2. Bobby's 'you can't be too careful' thing is from _Lazarus Rising_;

3. John's phone call to Sam was right out of _Faith_;

4. Dean's honesty over the phone is plucked from _Scarecrow_;

5. A Winchester being 'always fine' enough to be dismissed by Sam is from the Pilot;

Et cetera, I can't remember anything else. I try to do this a lot in my _Supernatural _fics, just to make them feel more in sync with the series. If they were real people, they would have recurring phrases and quirks after all :)

**

* * *

****III. Massive Thanks and Replies**

As always, thanks to all who read, favorited, alerted, and especially all who reviewed_ Talk Me Down: _WofOZ, wild-karde, unplugged32, apieceofcake, Aishybashy, adder574, tomash, snchills, iluvsprntrl, Zatnikatel, anjali23sk, Yammy1983, Merisha, Brenny, bluenettle, moira4eku, Meggin Lane, suicidalqueen, SingleMinded, and:

**Ster1**: I liked that you recognized that John was also impaired in this situation when you mentioned that he was 'barely coping too.' Thank you for that, you're as perceptive as always, and I agree.

**Phoebe**: I'm just a fan of how you phrase things, I guess, haha. Yup, manic Dean and there's no two ways about that, but especially with how you summed up John in this fic: the idea of him being puzzled and frustrated with Dean is exactly how I wanted it to come out. He's only human after all, and he's tired too.

**Jusmine**: Ah yes, the migraines, haha... I wish I could say the description didn't come from experience, haha, but there you go. I hope the migraine you got isn't from reading chapter 1, haha, and is long-gone by now. Feel better and thanks for taking the time to read! :)

**Mandy**: *Hugs back* Thanks for the constant support and encouragement. I wish I was more worthy and I hope this one didn't disappoint!

**Kelcor**: I hope I didn't offend your John-love here... oh man, I know what you mean, I like depicting him as caring too, I have a history of fics on that, haha, but _Talk Me Down_ is a little more worn-down version of him, fresh off the Sam-leaving-them debacle, so I hope you don't feel the depiction wasn't characteristic!

If I got cross-eyed and missed you, please let me know as all reviewers deserve their due thanks. Thanks, really, for taking the time. I know it's hard, so thanks a bunch. I was initially going to sit on the rest of this fic for a week more, but your reviews were so encouraging and inspiring that I felt, what the heck, it's Thanksgiving, I wasn't expecting more than ten reviews (a fair average for my fics, I think) so when I hit twenty I thought, oh I might as well, since I hate waiting myself :)

I hope it you liked it. Thanks for your time, whether you review or not. Either way, C&C's are as welcome and cherished as always!

**

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****IV. The Next Project**

Crap, I know I keep posting something else other than what I preview so I figured I might as well just work on the stuff I do owe, and not put anything new down here for now, haha. It's just that when I get excited about an idea, I shift gears. So far, though, I have posted most of my previews, and am still working on _One Week_, which would be the third part of the _One Night_ – _Once More _trilogy, and _Underworld_, whose condensed-drama version _From Perdition_ I posted not too long ago. Please look out for these fics in the next few I dunnos, haha.

'Til the next post!


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